


breathe the sun's fire

by biblicalmate



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AFAB!reader, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - Inheritance Cycle, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Riders, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Season/Series 04, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, This fic is not out to hurt you, absolutely NOT dark!dany, characters will make appearances as they do in the show, could potentially spiral into an everybody lives au lmao, d&d might not believe in happy endings but I DO, dragons are widlly more intelligent than in canon, gets increasingly au as the story goes on ofc, i just love a lot of characters that the series did dirty, if platonic soulmates were a thing this fic would be full of them, kicks off during the meereen arc, ladies supporting ladies baby, long fic, magic is pretty different too, most canon relationships will make an appearance, no beta we die like men, obviously wildly au, reader is so fucking bi, seriously so so slow jon doesnt get here til the season 7 arc, should span to the end of season 8 lmao, show canon, some personal shipper bias might shine through tho lmao, someone should tell d&d that shock value is not the same as good writing, speaking of dying like men, well perhaps the amount of tags i've used, with a lil book canon thrown in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 20:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18746956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblicalmate/pseuds/biblicalmate
Summary: The world narrows down to this one, singular point; your hand on Drogon's snout, burning and blinding and brilliant as you suddenly become something more, something other, something you were born to be. Your mind is filled with another presence, something not quite you but not quite not, either, and you can feel two lungs breathing and two hearts beating and two minds racing and you know it down to your bones.He is your dragon, and you are his Rider.A reader-insert AU inspired by the style of dragon riders and their dragons as found in the Inheritance Cycle. Begins in Season 4 of Game of Thrones.





	breathe the sun's fire

**Author's Note:**

> So! This came to me when I was rewatching the the Season 8 premiere while flicking through my very battered copy of Eragon. I've always loved the idea of dragon riders having a bond like that found in the Inheritance Cycle with their dragons. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, it's essentially that the rider and dragon bond on every level, developing a telepathic bond that allows them to share thoughts, feelings and even see through each other's eyes. The rider becomes capable of magic if they weren't before and undergo gradual physical changes, too. It's pretty cool, imo. 
> 
> I started to wonder what that would be like in the world of GoT/ASoIaF and how the existing lore would have to change and how that could impact the way the seasons develop and, well, this is what happened. I'm a bit of sucker for reader-inserts so when I sat down to write this I went instinctually with that.
> 
> This fic is going to be long, because I plan on following it through to the end of Season 8. It's gonna be AU, of course, because some lore has to change from both the show and the Inheritance Cycle for things to fit and the presence of these characters and their impacts will obviously impact the way things play out, too. I'm super excited to share this with you all, so I hope you enjoy and it please, leave me some feedback so I know how y'all feel about it!

You dream of flying. The sky is wide and blue and endless, clouds few and far between. The air is crisp and cold and the wind tugs at your braid, pulls the hair loose until it’s whipping around your face. You feel completely and totally at peace, just you and the sky and the smooth beat of your companion’s wings. The flight is gentle, lazy almost, and the world that stretches beneath you is so small that it’s just pinpricks of colour.

Everything seems distant and hazy and the joy you feel is a simple, uncomplicated thing. You know in your bones that this is _right_ , there is where you were always meant to be. You can’t stop smiling, wide and guileless and genuinely happy in a way you haven’t felt in months, and you wish that this flight will never stop.

The itch starts under your skin the moment you wake.

It persists as you rise, wash and dress. It’s there when you pull your hair into your customary simple braid, leave your room in the inn for the din of the room downstairs. It’s there when you break your fast, butter bread and sip ale and smile politely at the woman serving you. It’s there when you gather your cloak, your knives and head out into the streets.

You woke with the itch so many moons ago that you can hardly remember a time without it, now, have learned to push it to the furthest reaches of your mind so that you can function without it consuming you. It had come with dreams, too, of flying and fire and silver hair and a harsh tongue you couldn’t understand.

It had almost driven you mad at first, relentless and pervading as the maester tried everything he could think of to solve the problem. But there was no obvious cause, no rash to treat or allergy to avoid. It was like the itch was _inside_ , like ants crawled beneath your skin and whispered to you to that you had to _go_ , only you didn’t know where.

It had driven you from Pine Hall, from Icemont, from the North and your lady mother while your brother and father fought in Robb Stark’s war. You can still remember the way your mother fought, threatening to take the name Mollen from you if you left, how she had cried and wailed and begged in the end for you to stay with her.

It makes you ache to think of her now, sat in Pine Hall’s empty rooms with a dead husband and son, a daughter lost across the Narrow Sea. You wish more than anything that you could have stayed, that you could have held her when the ravens came bearing the news of the defeat of the King in the North. You had heard on the road to White Harbour, had had to grieve in unfamiliar inns with unfamiliar faces surrounding you as the world crumbled at your feet.

And still, the _itch_. Pulling and tugging you to the sea, to Essos and the possibility of something more out there, the nagging feeling that someone was waiting for you, someone that could fill the gaping emptiness that yawned within you. It had made you flee your home and your family, the sweet simple baker you had loved, the comfort of your mother’s arms.

It has led you, here, to the city of Meereen. You had arrived in time to find that Daenerys Targaryen had conquered the city, declaring herself queen, and the moment you entered the city’s walls it was like half of that insistent itch had drained away. It’s a softer thing, now, easier to ignore in one way but somehow more _directed_.

It pulls you to the Great Pyramid, where people swarm outside in hopes of seeing the Dragon Queen. You hear snatches of excited conversation; the Queen is seeing supplicants today. You hesitate, wondering why this knowledge tickles at your mind, driving you to join the long list of people wanting to voice their grievances.

You think of your dreams. Of silver hair and violet eyes. You know they’re Targaryen traits; for all that House Mollen is a minor Northern house, your mother had made sure you knew your histories, your houses. You know they call her the Mother of Dragons, this Targaryen queen. You think of flying, of great wings beating beneath you and the sky so clear and blue.

You’re not a fool; you’ve harboured suspicions about your dreams and the maddening itch since the moment they began to plague you. The tales of Dragon Riders have been well-spread through Westeros, and they had always been your favourite stories as a child. Men and women, both, bonded to great dragons and protecting the realms in service of the Targaryen rulers. They had died out as the dragons had, as magic faded from the world.

Stories said that a dragon would only hatch in the presence of their Rider, but you know that can’t be true, not with Daenerys Targaryen hatching three dragons but being Rider to none. You think perhaps there’s something to be said for the queen’s own magic; you’ve heard the rumours of her emerging from flames unscathed, of the sacrifices she made to bring dragons and magic back to the world.

But dragons have never meant to be without their Riders. The bond between dragon and Rider is something sacred, so personal and wonderful a thing that it’s scarcely talked about even in the stories. Their lives and souls and magic wind together, merging into perfect synchronicity. Even with lands and seas between them, the bond endures. Two of the dragons already had Riders, you know, the whispers of them reaching across the sea. You couldn’t help but wonder, the day you woke up feeling empty and strange and needing to be somewhere _else_ , if this was a bond unconsummated, a bond calling to you across the Narrow Sea.

You don’t know what you’ll do if your suspicion is right. You don’t know what you’ll do if it’s wrong, either. But you have to know. It’s been years of fighting it, denying it, of giving in and leaving home behind. And now the Mother of Dragons sits in the Great Pyramid, and with her lie the answers you need.

You join the winding queue of supplicants and settle in for a long wait, doing your best to ignore the anticipation knotting your stomach.

* * *

 ♚

* * *

 “You stand before Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

The Targaryen queen sits upon her throne, as beautiful as every rumour you’ve heard. Her hair is a stunning silver, glinting in the faint sunlight filtering into the audience chamber. She looks like a queen should look, you think, regal and striking and a little hard, a little cold. It almost feels like a betrayal to think it; your family had supported the King of the North, had looked to Robb Stark as your king and his wife as your Queen. But as Daenerys smiles at you, soft and polite and distant, you think, _This is what a ruler looks like_.

“Come forward, friend,” she says, and her voice is lilting and sure.

“Your grace,” you greet, licking suddenly dry lips. You don’t know how to say this. How can you even begin to explain what has drawn you here, the suspicion and the hope that has driven you across the world to stand before her? It’s too much.

You slip into a belated curtsy, ducking your head as you scramble for words. The move makes your cloak slip, revealing the pines stitched into the faded green fabric, and the man who stands beside the queen notices them.

“A snow covered pine. That’s the sigil of House Mollen, isn’t it? A Northern house.”

Your eyes flicker to him as you straighten out of the curtsy, surprised at his Northern accent for a moment. You’ve heard the rumours that the disgraced son of the Mormonts was serving Daenerys, but you hadn’t really known whether to believe it. You suppose this answers that question, at least. “Yes, my lord. I am Lady [Name] of House Mollen.”

The queen arches a silver brow at your admission, suspicion glinting in her eyes. “You are a very far way from home, my lady.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“And what has brought you to my court?” she asks, voice a little tighter now.

You consider the possibility she thinks you’re there to kill her; you can’t imagine she’s had an amazing relationship with the Westerosi, all things considered. You have to smother a snort; it would be a piss-poor assassination attempt, trying to get to her in her audience chamber, surrounded by guards and loyal subjects.

“It… is difficult to explain, your grace.” You hesitate, biting at your lip. You wonder if she’s had many people presenting themselves to her, proclaiming to be the Rider of one of her dragons. You wonder if she’s killed them for it.

“Try.” The word is harsh, the politeness seeming to drain from the queen as anger threatens. She’s wonderful in her anger, you think, fierce and sharp, and then you shake yourself to remember that this is not quite the time to ogle; you don’t particularly want to be burned alive for drooling over an angry monarch.

You swallow audibly, shifting in place. You release a shaky breath, curling your hands into fists. There’s nothing for it; you just have to come out and say it, and pray to the Old Gods and the New that this isn’t the stupidest idea you’ve ever entertained.

“I’ve felt a pull of sorts, your grace, for many years now. An incessant itch, like there was something — some _one —_ calling to me. I tried ignoring it for a long time. I was confused, scared. I didn’t want to leave home, my family.” You pause to wet your lips again, wincing a little at the cool expression on the queen’s face.

“Eventually, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. It — I feared it would drive me mad. I followed where it drove me, across the Narrow Sea, through Slaver’s Bay, to here. Even now, I still feel it.” You fall silent, considering yourself. “It’s the easiest it’s ever been, right now. I…” You trail off, taking a steadying breath. “I believe I am meant to be here, your grace. I believe I have been driven here for a reason.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow raises, again, but you get the sense she isn’t angry anymore. No, the way she leans forward a little in her throne, the way her eyes shine — you think she’s anticipating something. You think she knows what you’re about to say.

“I think I’m the Rider of one of your dragons, your grace.”

The admission ripples through the room, murmurs of what you think is Valyrian passing between those present. Daenerys stays silent, surveying you with keen eyes, and you make an effort to straighten your shoulders and meet her gaze head on. You wonder what kind of picture you make, standing there in your Northern gown, trying to hide your trembling hands and the way your breath hitches. You’re almost vibrating with anticipation, wondering what she’ll say, what she’ll _do_.

“Enough,” she commands, and her advisers immediately fall into silence. “It seems to me this is easily resolved. _If_ you are what you claim to be.”

A flurry of Valyrian, again, this time coming from the queen. One of the servants leaves the room in a hurry, and you watch them go uneasily. You’re starting to wish you’d made more of an effort at learning more Valyrian than how to ask for a room at an inn.

The queen stands, waving off one of her guards, and breezes down the steps between you. She moves fluidly, surely, as she comes to a stop in front of you. She’s so close you can almost touch her. Her head tilts to the side as she surveys you, again, and this time you can’t stop yourself from tensing noticeably.

“You are not the first to come to me, claiming to be Drogon’s Rider,” she tells you, almost idly. “Many have tried to invoke a bond with him. Many have failed.”

You swallow your nerves and ask the question that’s been plaguing you since you started your tale. “And what did you do those people, your grace?”

Violet eyes sharpen. “ _I_ did nothing. Drogon, however, doesn’t take well to people raising his hopes only to disappoint him.” The threat is implicit, easy to catch, and you wince a little.

The servant returns with another stream of Valyrian, and the queen spins, gliding up the stairs but bypassing her throne. Daenerys pauses, turning to look at you over her shoulder, and your breath catches as she inclines her head. You almost trip over your feet as you follow her, eyeing her guards as warily as they are you.

You stay quiet as she leads you up to what you suspect are her private chambers, doing your best not to gawp like a brainless idiot as you take in the expanse of her rooms. Daenerys doesn’t pause, sweeping to the balcony immediately as the walls seem to rumble, and your heart is in your mouth as you trail after her.

You imagine the balcony is quite expansive, when it’s not being taken up by a hulking dragon. Your footsteps falter as the silver-haired queen approaches him, talking in Valyrian again. He’s a massive creature, his scales black as pitch and his horns a bright, bleeding red. His wings are tucked tightly to his side, but you suspect their spread is impressive to be able to carry his weight. His great red eyes fix on you immediately, even as his mother speaks softly to him, and his lips pull back to reveal rows and rows of black fangs.

He’s a fierce looking dragon, but you are not afraid. You should be afraid, you think distantly, but you aren’t. You’re trembling, instead, eager and barely breathing with it. The part of you that’s felt hollow for years is clamouring for you to go to him, your bones straining under the weight of staying still. It’s like something within you resonates; this dragon is a part of you, and every fibre of your being recognises it.

“Come.”

Daenerys barely finishes the word before you’re surging forward, hand outstretched, and every single doubt you’ve harboured since the day you left home fades away as Drogon stretches his neck, eyes shining with intelligence you hadn’t really expected, and between one breath and the next the skin of your hand is smoothing along the heat of his scales, and everything _stops_.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced. It’s like every inch of you is burning, but it doesn’t hurt. It makes you think of sinking into a too-hot bath, of sitting at the fire with your mother. Emotions and thoughts and memories that aren’t your own are flooding into your head, and your head spins and you feel dizzy and breathless and agonisingly _alive_. Your hand sears with pain but it’s euphoric, so much so you’re crying even as you laugh, even as you drop to your knees with the force of the feeling and Drogon follows you, hot breaths puffing against your arm and finally, _finally_ , the itch fades away.

The world narrows down to this one, singular point; your hand on Drogon's snout, burning and blinding and brilliant as you suddenly become something more, something other, something you were born to be. Your mind is filled with another presence, something not quite you but not quite not, either, and you can feel two lungs breathing and two hearts beating and two minds racing and you know it down to your bones.

He is your dragon, and you are his Rider, and nothing is going to be the same ever again.


End file.
